


The Overnight Guest

by zoicite



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/pseuds/zoicite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene that takes place mid 1x11</p><p>Taking Neal up on his offer of a place to stay isn’t turning out exactly as Peter expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Overnight Guest

Taking Neal up on his offer of a place to stay isn’t turning out exactly as Peter expected. He’s had fun with Neal before. They’ve stayed up late drinking and talking and laughing, and it’s been both enjoyable and productive. Peter thinks it’s good for him to hang out with other people, good to give Elizabeth her space. It’s good for him to spend some time doing guy things with guy friends, even if those friends happen to be convicted felons who aren’t actually into very many guy things, as evidenced by the way Neal spent the evening staring in disbelief at both the game and Peter.

Now Peter watches Neal tuck the edge of a bed sheet beneath the cushions of his very small couch. He’s meticulous about it, taking his time perfecting how the sheet folds around the corner of the cushion. Peter is almost convinced that Neal is doing it on purpose knowing that watching Neal smooth wrinkles out of a sheet will drive Peter crazy. It's some sort of payback for Peter showing up on his doorstep while Neal was ‘entertaining,’ despite the fact that Neal was the one who invited Peter in the first place. Mi casa es su casa. Sure, Neal. Sure.

Apparently Neal’s offer to stay was only good for a very small window, and Peter missed that window when he brushed Neal off that afternoon in the office. Or more likely, Neal’s current state is a result of Peter refusing to go along with Neal’s game and revealing that he’s FBI to Neal’s beautiful friend. And if that’s what this is about, then Peter sees no reason to apologize for crowding in on Neal’s life. Peter showing up is helping Neal, keeping him out of trouble.

“Okay,” Peter says, reaching in to grab the blanket from the coffee table. “Okay, it’s fine.”

Neal nods, stares at his work, and then says, “I’ll get you a pillow.”

While Neal retreats to grab a pillow from the bed, Peter unfolds the blanket, throwing it over the sheet so that it hides Neal’s perfect folds and creases.

Neal returns, hands Peter a pillow, and says, “The bathroom’s in there,” pointing toward the other side of the kitchen.

“I remember,” Peter says. It isn’t the first time he’s been here.

Peter picks up his bag and retreats into the bathroom, grabs his cellphone from the table on the way. He’s tempted to call El, complain about Neal for a while, tell her he loves her and convince her to come home, but he thinks it might seem a little bit pathetic to admit that he can’t handle one night without her. It’s not like they never spend time apart.

Peter relieves himself, pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and brushes his teeth. He thinks one more time about calling El, then imagines having to explain to Neal why he locked himself in the bathroom to call his wife when Neal gets impatient and starts knocking, which will probably be any second now.

“Thought maybe you planned to stay in there all night,” Neal says, confirming Peter’s guess when Peter finally emerges.

Neal’s changed into some kind of silk sleeping getup. Peter looks down at his sweatpants and old t-shirt and feels suddenly underdressed.

“Do you sleep in formalwear every night?” Peter asks.

Neal just stares hard at Peter, then walks past him across the kitchen and disappears into the bathroom.

Peter sighs and looks around the room. He eyes the Scrabble board. He thinks about pocketing one of the tiles that Neal’s friend rearranged, checking up on her, but knows that Neal will check it as soon as he’s finished in the bathroom. He’ll figure out a way to swipe the tile in the morning.

He walks over to the bookshelf instead, stares at the assortment of books. Based on the list of authors – Danielle Steele, Jude Devereaux, a few others that Peter recognizes from El leaving them lying around the bedroom – Peter’s guessing the books are mostly June’s. Then again, Neal’s a romantic, maybe that follows through to his taste in fiction as well. With Neal, anything is possible.

Peter hears the toilet flush and stops taking inventory of Neal’s apartment. He pushes the blanket aside on the couch, attempts to lie down on Neal’s perfect sheets. The couch is too short and the arms are too straight, boxing him in, setting his neck at an uncomfortable angle, even with the pillow. He pushes the pillow down, but now the couch is _really_ too short. He drapes his legs over the arm and then sighs, lying back. He stares up at the ceiling only to discover that there is no ceiling above him at all, just a giant skylight.

“That’s gonna be bright,” Peter mumbles.

“What?” Neal asks, coming toward him from across the kitchen.

He stands on the other side of the coffee table in his silly pajamas, looking down at Peter all twisted on his midget couch.

“Comfortable?” Neal asks.

Peter bites his bottom lip and then smiles and says, “It’s great.” After all, it’s still better than that motel.

Neal’s smiling at him. It’s a smile that Peter can only describe as smug. He’s about to say something when Neal turns away, reaches over and shuts off the light.

They don’t bother with pleasantries, just lapse right into silence. Peter checks the alarm on his phone, tosses it onto the coffee table. He listens to Neal shuffle around and climb into his bed. When Neal stops moving, Peter closes his eyes and tries to relax. He lasts about five minutes before his neck starts to ache and the arm of the couch starts to chafe on the back of his knees.

“Dammit,” Peter grumbles, shifts onto his side, curling his legs in an attempt to fit his entire body comfortably on the two cushions.

“Moz sleeps there all the time,” Neal notes from across the room.

“I’m fine,” Peter says. “I’m good.” What he really wants to point out is that he and _Moz_ aren’t exactly the same size. Also, he distinctly remembers Neal mentioning that his friend lives in a storage unit, automatically invalidating his opinion on the suitability of Neal’s couch for sleeping.

His knees ache and he shifts again, bending one knee while draping his other leg back over the end of the couch. This new position isn’t even comfortable in the beginning.

“You know,” Peter says. “Maybe I’ll just stretch out on the floor. I’ve always liked camping.”

“Peter,” Neal sighs and reaches over to turn a light back on.

“It’s fine,” Peter repeats. “I’m just going to spread everything out here on the floor.”

He stands and moves to push the coffee table aside, but Neal stops him before he can start moving the furniture.

“All right. Just get in,” Neal says.

“What?” Peter asks, looking up from the table.

Neal has the blankets on his bed thrown back and he’s gesturing at the other side. He looks completely exasperated, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“Get in there?” Peter asks.

“It’s a big bed, Peter. I know how to share,” Neal says.

The bed isn’t that big. It looks old and antique and kind of narrow.

“I don’t want to crowd you,” Peter says. “The floor is fine.”

“The floor is cold and hard,” Neal says. “We’re adults. I’ll stay on my side, you stay on yours. We can put pillows between us, if you’re that worried about it.”

“I could sleep on one of June’s couches downst –“

“Peter,” Neal says, and it’s a warning tone he recognizes. He’s heard it in Elizabeth’s voice before. It’s a tone that suggests that if Peter doesn’t just shut up and get in the bed, he’s going to be sleeping on deck chairs out on the roof.

Peter grabs his pillow and his blanket and says, “Okay.”

He expects Neal’s bed to be hard like the couch, but the mattress is soft and the comforter is huge and downy and Peter sinks into the bed with a groan.

“Couch is really that bad to sleep on, huh?” Neal asks, turning the light off once more.

“No grown person should be forced to sleep on that couch,” Peter confirms.

The bed really isn’t that big, and Peter can feel Neal warm beside him. He ignores it, notes that there is also an enormous skylight over the bed, and then closes his eyes and tries to get some rest before the sun comes up and makes sleep impossible. They’re in the middle of a case. They’re always in the middle of a case. Rest is important.

Neal moves slightly beside him, as if to remind Peter that he’s right there. Peter shifts onto his side away from Neal and rolls his eyes at himself. Peter should be able to share a bed with another adult. He’s man enough. It’s more complicated than that though. The problem here isn’t that Peter can’t handle sleeping close to another man. The problem here is Elizabeth.

None of this would be a big deal if Elizabeth had never said, “Neal really looks up to you, you know? It’s almost like a little crush.”

Peter’d scoffed and said, “Caffrey doesn’t have a crush on me.”

And that was when Elizabeth said the worst thing she ever could have said. “I think he does. You’re so oblivious to these things you’d just never notice.” And that was it. Ever since then, Peter’s caught himself checking for signs that Neal might have a crush on Peter. Peter, of all people.

He hasn’t seen any signs, and after a week of looking Peter mostly forgot about the comment entirely and just went back to life as normal. But now he’s in a bed beside Neal and it’s all he can think about. Because Peter can read El, and El was saying more than just that Neal has a crush on Peter. The unspoken second half was this: “And I know you have a little crush on him too.”

Peter doesn’t have a crush. Peter hasn’t had a crush in ten years. Sure, he thinks Neal’s something of a genius. Frustrating, infuriating, but smart and talented too. Peter is glad that Neal talked him into their working arrangement. Peter missed Neal those four years that Neal sat quietly in prison. He enjoys working with Neal, even if it means that he spends half of his time worried about Neal. And objectively, yeah, Neal is very attractive. But a crush. Come on. Peter’s too old for crushes.

And then Peter feels Neal’s foot slide against his leg. He freezes and waits and when it happens again his heart races a little and he curses his wife for ever bringing any of this to his attention. Neal shifts once more and there it is, the cool press of Neal’s foot against Peter’s skin.

Peter doesn’t know what to do. He thinks about all of the times that Neal’s frustrated the hell out of him, the mornings that Neal has ruined by barging uninvited into his home, interrupting his breakfast. He thinks about the things Neal’s tried to keep from him, the constant trouble Neal manages to get himself into. Neal is a hassle, a liability, an annoyance. And Neal’s foot is still pressed against his, making all of those other points seem unimportant, distractions.

Finally, Peter can’t take it anymore, can’t keep quiet.

“Neal,” he says.

“Yeah?” Neal asks. His voice is low, a little gravelly, like maybe Neal was almost asleep.

“Is that – are you playing footsie with me?” Peter asks.

“What?”

“Your foot is touching me,” Peter repeats.

“No, it isn’t,” Neal says. Peter can hear the frown in his voice.

“I can feel it.”

“Move over if my imaginary foot is bothering you.”

Peter clenches his jaw, breathes deep, and says, “I’ll fall off the bed if I move over any farther.”

“My foot is not touching you,” Neal grouches. “Jesus, how old are we?”

“You foot is freezing,” Peter says, and then kicks at it.

“Peter - Oh,” Neal starts. “Okay, sorry. My foot is sort of touching yours.”

“ _Sort of_ touching mine? You’re all over me.”

Neal laughs at that, but his foot moves away from Peter’s. “It was the tracker,” Neal says.

“Thank you.”

“You’re wound kinda tight, Peter,” Neal says. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

Peter turns then, rolls over so that he can glare at Neal, retort ready, only to find Neal grinning at him in the dark. Peter frowns at Neal, their faces just a few inches apart. Neal’s smile grows just a little, and Peter feels his mouth twitch, feels the threat of a smile in response.

“Shut up,” Peter says, and that has Neal laughing, a short quiet bark of a laugh that Peter feels in his stomach. Peter turns back toward the wall, balances himself right on the edge of the bed. He can feel Neal’s eyes studying the back of his head and feels flushed and a little self conscious.

Dammit, Elizabeth is right. Maybe not about Neal. Neal’s just messing around, picking. But Elizabeth is right about Peter. Maybe Peter really does have a little bit of a stupid childish crush on Neal Caffrey. It sounds so pathetic, like they're all back in high school. Crush. But there it is, and Peter doesn't have another word for it.

He’ll call El in the morning. Talk it out. He’ll have to leave. He can’t stay here all week repeating _this_ every night. But if he leaves in the morning, Neal’s definitely going to know something is up. Peter will never hear the end of it. Better to stick it out. Or better yet, get Neal to _kick_ him out. It shouldn’t be hard. Neal wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him on his doorstep in the first place.

“’Night Peter,” Neal says, after a solid two minutes of silence.

“Good night,” Peter grunts in return, preoccupied, formulating his game plan.

Peter’s pretty sure El would be laughing pretty hard if she could see him now. It’s almost relaxing to think about how much Elizabeth is going to make fun when he tells her about his week. Peter tries to force the tension from his limbs, has to if he ever plans to get some sleep. He’ll call El in the morning and they’ll sort through this, get him out of this. Peter's eyelids feel heavy, the bed comfortable and soft.

“You were right,” he’ll say. "Neal made me sleep with him." And he won’t even have to tell her the rest because she’ll be laughing so hard she won’t hear him anyway.


End file.
